


You'll Be the Death of Me

by JustJReally



Series: True Love's Kiss [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (well technically cursefic but you get the idea), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Curse Breaking, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Timeline What Timeline, Villain Character Death, brief Jaskier/OFC, we're talking EXTREMELY oblivious here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJReally/pseuds/JustJReally
Summary: “I told you to stay with-” he begins. The rest of the words dry up in his throat when he finds that the curse hadn’t entirely missed, after all. Jaskier is leaning heavily against a tree, clutching his chest with the arm he’s not using to support himself.“Geralt?” Jaskier says. There’s a tremor to his voice that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. Everything in him screams that it’s fundamentally wrong for Jaskier to sound like this. Jaskier shouldn’t be afraid. He shouldn’t be hurting.“He cursed you,” Geralt says, even as a part of him hopes that he’s wrong.“No, really,” Jaskier says. He slides down the tree a little as he speaks. “Here I thought this was normal.”***Jaskier gets cursed: either "the one he loves" returns his feelings, and kisses him, or he dies painfully.Geralt just wants to know why Jaskier won't tell him who he's in love with.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: True Love's Kiss [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979245
Comments: 53
Kudos: 1111





	You'll Be the Death of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so, SO much to notasmalltuba for beta-ing, I literally could not have done this without them. And even if I had it would not be nearly as good.
> 
> I've never played the games or read the books but I HAVE read a metric ton of fanfic- this is probably closest to tv!canon but who knows what weird little fanon/other canons details snuck in.
> 
> EDIT 1/8/21: I wrote a whole POV swap of this (which should be linked as the next part of the series), and made a couple minor edits to fix the continuity errors. Nothing to write home about, but if you're wondering why this says it's been updated, there you go!

One of these days, Geralt tells himself, he’s going to learn to stop getting involved with mages. This particular mage, who’d been terrorizing a tiny village in the middle of nowhere for weeks, and then led Geralt on a wild goose chase into the surrounding forest before ambushing him, is descending on him, smugly monologuing about how witchers are a blight and he’ll be pleased to put one in the ground. Or Geralt thinks that’s what he’s talking about, anyway; he’d started tuning the mage out after the fifth witcher-related cliché, more insulted by the lack of creativity than the words themselves. The fact that he’s probably going to die at the hands of the least original mage on the Continent only adds injury to insult; the fact that the mage got the upper hand on Geralt in the first place after uneven ground and a well-placed spell landed Geralt with his leg stuck under a slab of rock is a cold comfort.

Geralt is momentarily, absurdly grateful that when Jaskier writes a song about this, it will not be “here lies Geralt, defeated by a rock,” even if it is entirely made up of lies.

“Now,” the mage says. He takes a step closer to Geralt, who manages to get his sword up between the two of them, even if he’s trapped on one knee like he’s swearing allegiance to a lord or something else ridiculous. There’s power building around the mage; Geralt’s medallion hums. “Die. Since you are incapable of feeling love,” he adds, apparently feeling the need to continue monologuing even as it gives Geralt a chance to free himself, “and no one in their right mind would love you, you’ll meet a slow and painful end, knowing that you could have lived if you weren’t the monster you are.” Painfully, Geralt manages to shift his leg. He readies himself, waiting for a chance to slip under the mage’s guard and attack. He has the feeling he’s only going to get one. “Unless the one you love returns your feelings,” the mage continues, the power that had been building infusing his words, until his speech itself seems tense, ready to snap. He takes another step toward Geralt, coming just within striking distance. “And is willing to kiss you, you will die. Slowl-”

“What are you doing to him,” a familiar, furious voice says. Geralt swears under his breath.

The mage turns towards the sound, losing control of the curse as he does so. It misses Geralt entirely, flying off somewhere into the trees.

Geralt, seeing his moment, lunges forward. He feels something in his leg strain, maybe tear, as he pulls it out from under the rock, but he manages to close the gap between himself and the mage, driving his sword up through his heart.

For all of his monologuing, the mage only manages some wet gurgling as he slumps forward and dies. Geralt shuffles over to him, still on his knees. It’s less than dignified, but he isn’t sure his leg will support his weight, and he doesn’t want to be struggling to stand if the mage had some last trick up his sleeve. Which it doesn’t look like he did; his heart’s stopped beating, for one thing, for another, he’s lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. Geralt prods him a few times with his sword, just to be safe. Once he’s absolutely certain the mage is dead, he turns to Jaskier.

“I told you to stay with-” he begins. The rest of the words dry up in his throat when he finds that the curse hadn’t entirely missed, after all. Jaskier is leaning heavily against a tree, clutching his chest with the arm he’s not using to support himself.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says. There’s a tremor to his voice that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. Everything in him screams that it’s fundamentally _wrong_ for Jaskier to sound like this. Jaskier shouldn’t be afraid. He shouldn’t be hurting.

“He cursed you,” Geralt says, even as a part of him hopes that he’s wrong. Maybe Jaskier just tripped on something and is making a big deal of it.

“No, really,” Jaskier says. He slides down the tree a little as he speaks. “Here I thought this was normal.”

“Fuck.” Geralt wrenches himself to his feet, heedless of the fact that his lower leg tries to buckle the second he puts weight on it.

“Ohhhh that does not sound good.” Jaskier pushes himself off of the tree and takes a few stumbling steps toward Geralt. “Geralt, if I'm going to die-”

“You're not going to die,” Geralt says. He tries to sound reassuring, but even he knows he’s missed the mark; it comes out sounding dismissive instead. “It's the same curse he was trying to kill me with-”

“-yes, exactly-”

“It'll be easy to fix.” Geralt says, some of his relief slipping into his speech. It will be. Jaskier’s charming, and handsome, and while he may be clumsy at flirting he has a way of looking at Ger- at anyone, and making them feel important and wanted. Half of the Continent is in love with him. It shouldn’t be a problem to find someone he loves in return, either; he falls in love with almost everyone he meets, going by the amount and variety of people he’s waxed poetic about to Geralt at one point or another. He’s never gone more than a month without meeting someone and spending the next week mooning over them, talking about ‘her _smile_ ’ or ‘his _laugh_ ’ and saying things like ‘she’s the one, I know it, she’s my soulmate.’

Jaskier makes a face at this statement like a landed fish. “How will this be easy to -” he begins, his voice raising in both volume and pitch as he speaks, before changing tones abruptly. “Do you know how to fix it?”

“Of course,” Geralt says. He loops one arm around Jaskier’s waist and starts to tug him, as firmly as he can without exacerbating whatever the curse has started doing to him, in the direction he’d left Roach. Jaskier makes a little, surprised noise, not quite a yelp, and sways toward Geralt, only to immediately trip over his own feet as Geralt takes another step. Geralt adjusts his grip so that he’s supporting more of Jaskier’s weight, trying not to consider the possibility that this curse was meant to act quickly. That doesn’t make sense, the mage had wanted him to suffer, but if Jaskier’s already having trouble staying on his feet-

He picks up their pace, which is easier said than done, given how dense this part of the forest is. He ends up half-dragging Jaskier behind him, so that he can push aside branches and thorns. They’re not far from the road, he doesn’t think, but he wouldn’t be able to tell, given how thick the trees are.

"Where are we going?" Jaskier asks.

“You tell me,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks at him like he’d just suggested he kiss Roach to break the curse. “Are you still seeing that Countess?” he prompts, even as a part of his mind repeats that he doesn't know how long this curse is intended to take, that Jaskier might not have long enough to find her.

“Not for almost a year now,” Jaskier still sounds lost, although the, “Shows how much you listen to me,” that he tacks onto the end of the sentence does not sound lost at all, and instead sounds sullen. Geralt, who’d been deliberately avoiding mentions of Jaskier’s lovers for reasons he dares not examine too closely, feels as though he’s lost hold of this conversation. 

“Then who do we need to find?” he asks, trying as best he can to keep the growl from his voice; they’re wasting time they don’t have.

Jaskier stops moving, bringing Geralt up short. “You want to find the person I’m in love with and get them to kiss me. That’s your plan.” His tone is flat, utterly hopeless, and for the life of him Geralt can’t figure out why.

“Yes,” Geralt says. In a buried place he’s used to ignoring, a curl of worry begins to form. “There must be someone,” he adds, thinking back though every conversation they’ve had recently, “The woman from the inn back in town? You told me she was the love of your life and you could write ballads just about the color of her eyes on the way here.”

“Ariadna. She did have lovely eyes,” Jaskier muses, but there’s far less verve behind the statement than there should be.

_Fuck._ Geralt tries, again, to herd Jaskier down the path, but this time Jaskier digs in his heels. “It’s not going to work,” he says, falling back into the same, flat tone as before.

Geralt drops his arm and turns rapidly to glare at him. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it?”

“You heard the curse! It has to be the one I love. True Love’s Kiss, and all that.”

“That’s poetic nonsense. You just have to kiss someone you love, who loves you in return.” Although now that he thinks about it, it does sound slightly ridiculous that Jaskier and this woman could have fallen in love in under twenty-four hours. On the other hand, it is Jaskier. It could be possible. “If not her, there must be someone-”

“It won’t _work_ ,” Jaskier insists. In the absence of Geralt to hold him up, he’s wrapped both arms around his middle, and despite the fact that he and Geralt are nearly of a height, he suddenly looks small.

“Why are you so sure?” This time, Geralt doesn’t bother to control his voice, too angered by Jaskier’s seeming determination to lie down and die right here.

“Because I know who it is!” Jaskier all but shouts. There are about ten different emotions tied up in that sentence, frustration and longing and heartache overwriting the others. “And even if I didn’t,” he adds, curling in on himself even further, “I can feel the curse trying to drag me to him, like someone stuck a grappling hook in my chest and started yanking on it.”

“So we go find him, then. Stop making this difficult,” Geralt says, in another vain attempt at reassurance. He holds out a hand for Jaskier, gingerly, hating to see him curled in on himself like a flower that’s been picked and left to wither. It goes against everything about Jaskier’s nature to be trying to make himself small.

Jaskier sizes up Geralt for a long moment, some emotion flickering across his face too fast for Geralt to read it.

“No.” His voice is quiet but utterly self-assured.

“No?” Geralt replies, too bewildered to think of anything else.

“No,” Jaskier repeats. “I’m not telling you who he is, we break the curse another way. I’m still on my feet-” he straightens, wincing- “It doesn’t hurt, much, so it can’t be that bad a curse; we find the nearest healer or mage, a different mage, I guess, and we get them to fix it.”

Geralt wants to argue, to say that going after a definite end to the curse is a much better plan than wandering around hoping to stumble across a mage, but he stays his tongue. He’s not going to waste precious time arguing. “Yes, fine,” he says, slipping his arm back around Jaskier’s shoulders. “We find a mage. Now _move_.”

Thankfully, Jaskier doesn’t argue. Even more thankfully, he seems to be right about the curse. He looks a little peaky, and he's leaning on Geralt a bit more heavily than normal, but otherwise he seems unharmed. They should have plenty of time to fix this.

Jaskier’s quiet as they finish picking their way back through the woods to the road, though, which is worrying, although Geralt’s worry abates when, after he’s helped Jaskier up onto Roach’s back, Jaskier makes a face at him and says, “I should start dying more often if this is the treatment I get.” Geralt rolls his eyes and starts walking. “Nope,” Jaskier says, “Get up here, you’re not walking on that leg.” As Geralt starts to protest that he’s alright, it barely even hurts, he adds, “We’re going to move slower if you’re limping.” It’s clear from his tone that he knows he’s won.

Which he has, damn him.

Geralt’s leg threatens to give out entirely as he hauls himself onto Roach; for a moment, he’s positive he’s going to fall straight back onto the road, or worse, fall _and_ hurt Roach, and then Jaskier grabs his shoulder, steadying him. “Told you,” Jaskier says, singsong, but Geralt barely registers the words over his sudden, horrible awareness of just how close together they are. Under ordinary circumstances, he would cut off that thought right there, but he realizes, with no small amount of relief, the forced closeness allows him to check on Jaskier without seeming to hover. Despite his earlier fears, Jaskier’s heartbeat is still strong, his breathing even. He even starts singing a little after they’ve put the forest a good mile behind them, which lifts Geralt’s spirits more than he’d ever thought hearing the same line from a song-in-progress repeated endlessly could.

“Sounds nice,” he offers lamely, because _it’s good to hear you sing_ bares too much of his soul.

“That is the same line you were complaining about three hours ago,” Jaskier says. Just going off his tone, Geralt can picture the suspicious look he must be leveling at the back of his head. “You called it trite.”

“Your voice,” Geralt tries. “Sounds nice.”

It’s no better than his first attempt, but Jaskier says, “Why thank you,” softly pleased, as though Geralt had offered him more than a paltry compliment.

The town, when they arrive, is no different than they’d left it: a small cluster of sturdy buildings at the edge of the forest, full of a disproportionate number of woodworkers’ shops and people who look at Geralt with suspicion but not aggression. It is surprisingly agreeable, for a small town. “You go to the inn and pay for another night,” Geralt says as he dismounts, “I’ll talk to the alderman.”

“I should come with you, then. Make sure you get paid fairly.”

“No, you should-” Geralt begins, and then, noticing that Jaskier is gearing up for another argument, changes tacks. “I’ll ask the alderman about mages in the area, you see if any old kiss will break the curse.” Jaskier opens his mouth to argue. “It’s at least worth a try,” Geralt says. He barely recognizes his own voice, cracking and desperate, hadn’t even realized what he was feeling until his fear bled so strongly into his voice.

Jaskier’s expression softens. “Alright,” he says, quietly. He moves to get off of Roach, Geralt stepping in to help him. He’s not expecting Jaskier to twine both arms around his shoulders once his feet are firmly on the ground, and he stumbles forward a little, reflexively wrapping one of his arms around Jaskier’s waist to hold him upright. Jaskier doesn’t protest, or step away immediately. If anything he leans on Geralt a little more heavily, his heartbeat spiking in the process. Geralt brings up his other arm to brace Jaskier’s shoulders, the fear that he’d been attempting to wrestle into submission briefly threatening to overwhelm him. The fact that they’re standing chest to chest as though they were dancing, the way he’s seen couples do when a bard is playing a slow song and they’re swaying together more so than anything else, as though nothing was wrong, somehow makes the moment worse.

“You said any old kiss,” Jaskier says. He won’t meet Geralt’s eyes, his gaze locked instead on the base of his throat. “But- if it’s someone I care about, then maybe-”

“Yeah,” Geralt says. He speaks without thinking, or even trying to modulate his tone, and despite the obvious undercurrent of worry in his voice he somehow, finally, manages to sound reassuring. He does not think about what it means that having Jaskier in his arms makes his voice go soft. “If you both care about each other, there’s a good chance it will work. That mage didn’t seem all that competent to me.” He takes a step back, leaving one hand bracing Jaskier’s shoulder. “Go find her. You’ll be alright.”

Jaskier’s face falls at this. Before Geralt can ask what he did, Jaskier says, “I’ll see you back at the inn,” voice tight, and turns and walks off without another word. He’s holding himself stiffly, but aside from that he doesn’t seem much worse off than when they left town this morning. Despite the strangeness of that last interaction, and the nagging, unproductive idea that he’s insulted Jaskier without meaning to, all Geralt can feel is relief. The situation isn’t as bad as he’d feared, and nothing matters beyond that. With that, he and Roach go to seek out the alderman.

Jaskier’s fears about Geralt’s pay are unfounded; the man does turn over the appropriate amount, but he is less than helpful in all other respects. He responds to Geralt’s question about mages in the area in a tone that more or less screams, ‘if there were _competent_ mages in the area, do you think we’d have hired _you_ for this mess?’, but he does provide directions to a larger town.

Geralt takes his time stabling Roach, both because he wants to give Jaskier a fair chance to talk to the woman from last night, and because he does not trust any of the stable hands to treat her the way she deserves.

Jaskier’s not downstairs when Geralt reaches the inn, which could mean any number of things, but he makes his way up to their room to see to his leg, which has begun to shake worryingly whenever he puts weight on it. Hopefully, Jaskier’s disappearance is a good sign. As he reaches the top of the stairs, though, he hears a familiar voice from behind the far door.

“…the one I told you about,” Jaskier says. He sounds subdued, which is a terrible tone on him.

“So why didn’t you-” A voice replies. It’s not as familiar to Geralt as Jaskier’s, but presumably it’s the pretty innkeeper Jaskier had been making eyes at all night. Ariadna. They’d disappeared together almost as soon as Jaskier finished eating, and he’d snuck back into their room long after midnight, her scent clinging to his clothes.

“He said I should go to you.” There’s a wry tone to Jaskier’s voice that doesn’t exactly match ‘attempted flirtation,’ but his seduction techniques have always been non-traditional. Geralt is not sure what’s more confusing, the fact that he keeps going with various lines about sexy waterfowl, or the fact that he’s seen them work.

“Oh, darling,” Ariadna replies, in a whisper. Something seems off about her tone, it sounds more like sympathy than love, but then, Geralt has never been the best judge of tone. “I’ll try, but-”

“I know,” Jaskier says, his voice soft. “Thank you.”

There’s a brief silence, during which Geralt tries not to imagine whatever is going on behind that closed door. He fails miserably; the image of the two of them wrapped around each other in some passionate embrace is going to be burned into his brain for weeks. Then, Ariadna’s voice again. “Did it work?”

“No,” Jaskier says, sounding strangled. “No, I think that made it worse, actually. Ohfuck.” A second later Geralt hears the distinctive thump of a body hitting the floor.

Geralt’s striding across the hallway and throwing open the door before the sound has entirely registered. Ariadna, who’d been bending to help Jaskier up, shrieks a little, at the same time throwing one arm in front of Jaskier so she’s acting as a barrier between him and the door. She gets a good look at Geralt and, contrary to all reasonable human behavior, relaxes, and Geralt thinks he’s beginning to understand what Jaskier sees in her.

Jaskier leans around her arm, offering Geralt an unconscionably cheerful wave for someone who is half-sitting up on the floor in a heap of his own limbs. “How’d it go?” he asks.

“He said our best bet was a village three days ride from here,” Geralt says, at which the cheer immediately leaves Jaskier’s face. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“I’m going to… go now,” Ariadna says, glancing back and forth between Jaskier and Geralt. She helps Jaskier to his feet. The two of them exchange a few quiet words, heads bowed together. Geralt, entirely unwilling to be a part of this, listens as hard as he can to the chatter of the crowd below them. He still catches bits of the conversation, which is a strange back and forth of apologies and ‘no, don’t apologize,’ but as hard as he tries the last sentences of the conversation ring out like they’d been shouted.

“I still wish I could have helped.”

“No, you don’t,” Jaskier says. “You’d have to have known me for two days, right?” For some reason, one just as inexplicable as the statement itself, he says it fondly. For all Geralt’s staring at the floor he knows he’s smiling.

Jaskier starts to give Ariadna a kiss on the cheek as she leaves, before clearly thinking better of it, and they part with a handshake instead. His gaze follows her as she leaves the room, a soft mixture of fondness and longing in his eyes, and he stares at the door for a moment after it closes before turning to Geralt.

“So,” he says, putting his hands on his hips in an exaggerated motion, as though he’s physically shaking off his melancholy, “That did not work.” Geralt takes the moment to check him over, worried that the failed kiss affected him more than he’s currently letting on. He looks the worse for wear since Geralt last saw him, his cheeks slightly flushed like he has the beginnings of a fever, his face more drawn and tired, but not nearly as bad off as Geralt had feared when he heard him collapse. He’s also clearly waiting for some sort of response from Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, because _you seem to care about her, are you alright_ , is not only too emotional by far, but also threatens to unearth the jealousy that he’s very carefully been burying, and _you just collapsed, are you alright_ , is not only likely to lead to another rush of buried fear and love and grief spilling into his voice, but also might have an answer he doesn’t want to hear.

“Glad we’re on the same page. We find a mage, then?”

That, at least, gives Geralt an opportunity to say the piece he’d been turning over in his head since he left the alderman. “That didn’t work because you were right, the curse is directed at someone. We should find your lover and have him kiss you. That’s the safer option.”

“He’s not my lover,” Jaskier cuts in, almost before Geralt’s finished speaking. “I love him, that doesn’t mean it’s mutual.” His voice cracks, so slightly Geralt likely wouldn’t have noticed it were he not a witcher, on the last word. “It’s really not the safer option.”

Geralt glares at him. “It’s not,” Jaskier insists, exhaustion and heartbreak coloring his voice. “I know it won’t work.”

“You’re so certain you’re willing to risk your life?”

Again, there’s a flicker of an expression across Jaskier’s face, then he says, “I know going after him is more of a risk than just _trying to find someone who can break this curse_. Which we can _do_.” He stares stubbornly at Geralt. Geralt glares back. After a moment, Jaskier’s expression lightens. “Thank you, though. For caring.”

Geralt could live another hundred lifetimes and never be able to formulate a response to that. Of course he cares whether or not Jaskier lives or dies, and the idea that Jaskier thinks this worth commenting on haunts him. “I’m going to see if they want me to play again tonight,” Jaskier says. It’s a testament to how lost Geralt is that he can’t find it in him to protest. As Jaskier passes Geralt on his way out of the room, he claps him gently on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” he says, with a little smile, and Geralt almost believes him.

The rest of the evening has Geralt concerned and relieved by turns, so soon after one another that he’s left not knowing what to think. Jaskier plays a round for the inn’s patrons, and he does it with enthusiasm. The people in this town that doesn’t appear on most maps are the proud recipients of a performance that nobles would pay a small fortune for, and Geralt gets to watch Jaskier, in his element and breathtakingly happy. Even if most of the songs Jaskier plays are the ones about him, he can’t find it in him to be all that embarrassed, not when Jaskier looks so delighted with the world, not when he sings about Geralt’s heroics like he thinks this one performance can change the reputation of witchers for good. Not when Jaskier meets his eyes across the inn and Geralt feels for a moment as though Jaskier is playing for him, and only for him.

But Jaskier seems exhausted after his performance, even more than he usually would be after a long set, and he barely touches his food. He doesn’t try to flirt with anyone, either; in fact, he returns to Geralt’s booth and tucks himself up against his side, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder and staring up at Geralt like he’s trying to memorize his face. The closeness is nothing new, Jaskier has never had qualms about using Geralt as a chair, especially in crowded inns, but the staring is strange. As is the fact that he’s here, with Geralt, when there’s a whole crowd of people for him to get lost in.

“Are you feeling alright?” Geralt asks, half-prepared to pick him up and carry him back to their room.

“Oh course. I have a curse in me, I’m dandy,” Jaskier grouses. He grabs the ale from Geralt’s hand and takes a careless swig, while Geralt watches him, concerned. Jaskier tips his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder, and his eyes widen. “I’m fine,” he soothes, and Geralt curses himself for letting that much of his worry show on his face. “No worse than earlier today, anyway.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“What, can’t a man want to spend some time with his best friend?”

“You’ve got an entire crowd you could be charming. Especially after that performance, you could have all the free drinks you want, instead of stealing mine.” He punctuates the sentence by pointedly removing the tankard from Jaskier’s hand and taking a long drink. “Seems something must be wrong if _you’re_ willing to spend the evening brooding in a corner.”

When he looks back to Jaskier, his face is flushed. Geralt considers putting a hand on his forehead to see if he’s feverish, but assumes he’ll just be swatted away. “Nothing’s wrong,” Jaskier says softly. “I just wanted to sit with you.”

Geralt cannot fathom why; the inn is undoubtedly full of people who are better company than him, but he doesn’t question it aloud. He lets Jaskier make himself more comfortable against his shoulder, instead, and flags down one of the barmaids to bring them more drinks, since Jaskier is clearly of a mind to keep stealing his otherwise. When a few minutes pass and Jaskier doesn’t think better of spending the evening in Geralt’s company, or collapse suddenly in a fit of new curse symptoms, they fall into quiet conversation, the way they might on any other night while camped in front of a fire.

Hours later, when the inn has mostly emptied and the conversation had faded out into a comfortable silence, Jaskier mumbles a sleepy, “Nothing’s wrong,” from where he’s half dozed off against Geralt’s shoulder. “I like being with you, you know.”

The momentary peace that night brings him does not last. Jaskier looks exhausted the next morning, like he hadn’t slept at all, even though he’d been dead to the world until Geralt physically shook him to wake him. Even then, he seems hazy, the feverish flush even more prominent in his cheeks. Geralt watches him closely as he stumbles around the room getting ready; he’s holding himself like a man who’s been gut-wounded and is doing his best not to show it. “Mm fine,” Jaskier mumbles, when he catches Geralt looking. He’s clearly lying. 

Geralt bundles him out of the inn and onto Roach before he can say anything else.

His thoughts for the rest of the day are taken up with worry. The trip to the next town will take too long. Jaskier already seems so much worse than yesterday. If they stumble upon bandits, or monsters, Geralt’s not sure what to do. He’d patched up his injured leg the day before, but he’s still limping slightly; he’ll be disadvantaged in any fight and he can’t ask Jaskier to run and save himself, first of all, because he won’t listen, and secondly, because it conjures the mental image of Jaskier alone and slowly succumbing to the curse.

And then there’s the matter of Jaskier’s insistence that they break the curse by magical means. They’re heading for a village in the blind hope that the pace of the curse won’t accelerate and there will be a competent mage there, but neither of those are certainties; it seems too much of a gamble for Jaskier to take with his own life. Not to mention the fact that finding Jaskier’s lover so he can kiss him seems, in Geralt’s opinion, exactly like the method of curse-breaking Jaskier should be most enthusiastic about. That’s _romantic_ and _the stuff of stories_ and it’s deeply unsettling that Jaskier hasn’t said either of those things.

Geralt glances over at Jaskier, who is, against all the bonds of common sense and animal care, attempting to scribble something in his notebook and stay on Roach’s back at the same time. He smiles to himself, because it’s such a wholly Jaskier thing to do, and it warms something in his heart. Jaskier catches him watching and offers a pleased, if confused, smile in return, and Geralt has to very firmly shove aside the thought, _It’s a pity unrequited love can’t fix this curse; otherwise I could just kiss him_.

Then he says, “Don’t do that.”

When they stop for the night, Jaskier attempts to help set up the camp until the fifth time Geralt tells him to _just sit by the fire and rest,_ but the curse is obviously taking a toll on him; not only does he actually listen to Geralt, he sits as close to the fire as he possibly can and still shivers, even though the night is warm. He’s still unusually quiet, and once they’ve eaten, Geralt quietly starts rebandaging his leg, planning on leaving Jaskier alone to get some sleep. Instead, Jaskier sits down next to him with a quiet, “Here, let me.”

Geralt offers a dismissive grunt in response, not taking his eyes off his work. He probably shouldn’t have expected that to deter Jaskier in the slightest, but it doesn’t; Jaskier just slips his hands into Geralt’s and smoothly takes the bandages from him.

The gesture is remarkably smooth, in fact, considering that his hands are shaking slightly as he bandages Geralt’s leg. The fact that he accomplished it at all may have something to do with the way Geralt’s world has suddenly narrowed to the feeling of Jaskier’s hands pressed against his skin through the bandaging. The fire, the wind in the trees, the sound of some foxes screaming a few miles off- it all falls away, leaving him, and Jaskier leaning over him, biting his lower lip in concentration.

“You don’t have to-” Geralt manages, his throat dry.

“I do.” For some reason, Jaskier sounds equally hoarse; Geralt wonders if it’s another side effect of the curse. “Please,” he looks up at Geralt. The look in his eyes could almost be called pleading, but it’s not the exaggerated look he gives Geralt when he’s trying, and often succeeding, at convincing him to stay at an inn one more night or buy him a drink. It’s something more honest, almost vulnerable. It makes Geralt want to _protect him_ on a near visceral level, although he can’t be sure if that’s an instinct that was mutated into him or something that’s grown after years of knowing Jaskier.

He can only respond, “You shouldn’t do this for me. Not when you’re-”

“When have I ever done things I should?” Jaskier says. “I’m fine. Besides-” he ties off the bandages with a flourish- “Could a cursed person do that?”

It is, potentially, the worst bandage job Geralt’s seen, and that’s counting the Drunken Knife Fight Incident. Given the circumstances, he isn’t about to say anything, but Jaskier takes another look at the bandages and his face falls a little. “That may not be the best example.” He sits back. “My point stands, though. Let me help you.” The vulnerable look is back, but warmer and more muted at the same time; if Geralt weren’t what he is, he’d almost think Jaskier was about to reach out and brush a lock of hair off his face.

“Let _me_ help _you_ , then.” Geralt says, after a moment.

“With… songwriting?”

“With the curse. You’re… right,” he says, feeling as though he’s just dumped his swords and armor into a river and dared every single wraith in existence to fight him. “So let me help you.”

“How?” Jaskier asks. His tone is wary, but he’s leaning toward Geralt anyhow.

Geralt casts about for the most tactful way to say this, and ends up with, “How did you meet him? Your- love.”

“I saw him across a tavern,” Jaskier says slowly, eyes locked on Geralt like he’s waiting for something, “And I knew, in that moment, he was the one. Of everyone in that room, he was the only one who-” He cuts himself off abruptly, giving Geralt a dirty look. “You’re just trying to get me to slip so you can figure out who he is, aren’t you?”

“No,” Geralt lies.

“I’m not going to tell you who he is!”

“But this would be so much easier if-”

“I keep telling you, it wouldn’t-”

“It’s your life in the balance-”

“You don’t know how much this could hurt him-”

“Who gives a damn? If you would just tell me-”

“What do you want me to say?” Jaskier asks. The sheer anguish in his voice brings Geralt’s next argument stuttering to a halt. “That I’ve been in love with him since I was eighteen, but he’s never shown the slightest interest in me? He’s never treated me as anything more than a friend, but my heart is his, it always has been? That he _cares_ about people, so deeply, and I know how he’d react if I told him, and he wasn’t able to fix anything, and I refuse to put him through that? I won’t do it. Please don’t ask me to.” The grief in his voice as he finishes is almost overpowering.

“I won’t,” Geralt agrees, after a long silence. It kills him to do so, to let Jaskier go forward with this plan, but he thinks, if he did ask this of Jaskier, it would break something between them, something he’d never be able to walk back.

He’d almost be willing to make that break, if he weren’t certain that he’d hurt Jaskier more than he’d hurt himself. The loss of Jaskier’s friendship would be devastating, he knows. But he can’t think it would compare to losing a friendship and being forced into something so deeply against his own wishes, by someone he considered a friend, and he won’t do that to Jaskier under any circumstances. He won’t save Jaskier’s life by hurting him.

The silence following Geralt’s agreement is crushing, so much so that Geralt is the one to break it. “Finding a mage it is, then.”

“Like I’ve been telling you this whole time,” Jaskier says with a weak grin. It’s a valiant attempt to be teasing, but his voice shakes a bit. The ensuing silence is still uncomfortable, but worlds less oppressive. After a few moments Jaskier adds, “Please understand, there isn’t anyone in this world I trust more than you. I trust that you can find someone to fix this. I don’t want to pursue the other option when I know it will only hurt-” his breath hitches- “him.”

In any other circumstances, Jaskier’s first sentence would have left Geralt reeling, doing his best to control his racing heart and the warmth spreading through his chest. Right now, though, Jaskier still looks miserable, making any happiness Geralt feels pale in comparison.

“That song you were working on,” Geralt says, a stilted attempt at a peace offering, made in the vain hope of wiping that awful look from Jaskier’s face, “Is it- going well?” Despite his obvious fatigue, Jaskier brightens, immediately beginning to ramble about the song, only pausing to ask Geralt for his opinion on chord progression. Geralt does not have, and never had, an opinion on chord progression, but he does his best to reply. And if Geralt spends the rest of that evening staring at the soft smile on Jaskier’s face, warmly lit by the fire, trying to commit it to memory alongside the knowledge that he put it there- well, he’ll keep that fact to himself.

Much like the night before, Jaskier ends up curled sleepily into Geralt’s shoulder. It’s less comfortable than the night before, since they’re sitting on the ground and Geralt is leaning against a tree, his injured leg propped up on a rock, but Jaskier’s only complaint about the situation is “When we find a healer, you’re getting that leg looked at, too.”

“It should be fine by tomorrow,” Geralt assures him.

“What was I just saying,” Jaskier says, without any heat.

They sit like that for a moment, both watching the stars. In the silence, their earlier conversation sneaks its way back into Geralt’s mind and begins to eat at him, the comfort of having Jaskier snuggled into his shoulder only worsening the guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offers. Jaskier tenses but gives no other indication that he’s heard. “I should have listened, earlier. If I’d known how you felt about your… person, I never would’ve told you to try kissing the woman from the inn.” The feeling that this is all his fault, somehow, that he’s the reason the curse worsened, eases as he speaks. “I’d have taken this more seriously from the start. You seem to love so many people so genuinely; I thought this curse would be easy to break. If I’d known you’ve loved this man for this long-”

“No, you’re right. I did love them,” Jaskier says. “Although before now I didn’t think you were such a romantic that you’d assume my True Love was a woman I’d known for one day,” he adds, teasing.

“So maybe,” Geralt adds, with the horrible feeling that his next question will only make things worse and the certainty that, if there’s any chance it could save Jaskier’s life, he has to ask it, “One of them could break the curse? Someone you’ve known for more than a day?”

Geralt braces himself for some sort of bitingly angry retort, or at the very least annoyance, but Jaskier only heaves a defeated sigh and looks out into the middle distance at the treeline. “I don’t think they could. He’s been too important to me, for too long, and I think the curse picked up on that. That mage said the _one_ you love, after all.” Geralt means to say something, to reaffirm that they will be able to break the curse another way, but Jaskier keeps talking, as though that one question had opened the floodgates on the emotions he’s been keeping hidden. “I’ll meet someone new, and I’ll fall for them, and I’ll think I’m finally over this stupid, unrequited thing, and then he’ll _have_ to go and do something heroic, or buy me a new strap for my lute after I mentioned, once, in passing, that the one I have is frayed, and I’m back to square one.

“He’s made a home in my heart, even though he doesn’t know it. He _is_ my home. There have been other people, sure, and I’ve loved them, but- it always comes back to him in the end.”

“He sounds kind,” Geralt says, which for some reason prompts a snort of laughter from Jaskier. He would be offended, but the smile Jaskier gives him is so genuine he can’t find it in him to feel anything but love.

Because he loves Jaskier, loves him the same way Jaskier feels about this other man, even if now, with Jaskier pressed up against his side and smiling like a halfhearted compliment for the man he loves is the best gift anyone’s ever given him, is the only time he’d admit it, even to himself. Even if it’s not worth thinking about, because Jaskier doesn’t love him, deserves better than him, but sometimes Jaskier smiles at him and his best attempts to bury his feelings fail. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier adds, “for listening.”

“Anytime,” Geralt replies. The devious smile that spreads across Jaskier’s face is worth anything, even the teasing he’ll inevitably face over that offer in the future, because it promises a future where Jaskier is still talking to him. 

The next day and a half pass much the same way, expect for the fact that Jaskier’s condition steadily worsens. By the time they reach the next village, late in the afternoon of the fourth day since he was cursed, he can’t move without wincing from whatever pain the curse is causing him. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down for days, there are hollows under his eyes so dark they look like they’ve been painted on with charcoal, his cheeks have gone hollow, like the curse is eating away at him from inside. He leans against Geralt, barely conscious, as Geralt pounds on the door of an out-of-the-way building that apparently belongs to the local mage. A woman who looks to be in her early twenties, which could mean truly anything, given that she’s a mage, opens the door.

“Can you fix him,” Geralt asks, without preamble, all but shoving Jaskier at her.

The woman seems equally alarmed by the witcher looming in her doorway and the corpselike man at his side, but Geralt can’t bring himself to care.

She recovers quickly, waving them inside and helping Geralt sit Jaskier down on a bed in the back corner of the room, and sets directly to examining him. It’s not hard to miss the way her features get steadily more drawn after only a cursory examination, nor the way her tone moves from ‘stiff, but professional’ to ‘afraid’ as she questions Geralt about the curse, and she quickly pulls Geralt aside. Jaskier, slumped against the wall, doesn’t seem to notice they’ve moved.

“If you can get him to the next village there’s a mage who may be more skilled than I am,” is the first thing she says. It takes physical effort for Geralt not to punch the wall at the statement.

“There’s _nothing_ you can do?” he says, practically a snarl. It’s not her fault, he knows it isn’t, but the frustration and helplessness he feels is too strong to keep out of his voice.

“I don’t know.” She folds her arms across her chest, giving him a look that’s very close to sliding from leeriness into outright disgust.

“Explain.” He manages not to snarl this time, but it’s a near thing.

The mage shoves one hand through her hair with a loud sigh. “That curse is a mess. It’s powerful, and it’s all layered and tangled in on itself-”

“Meaning?”

“I could strongarm the curse out of the way if I wanted to, but with the way it’s tangled I have no idea if it would backfire on him, or if I’d just cause more damage ripping it out of him. It’s got its claws in too deep. Like I said, there’s a mage in the next village who might know more than me, but…” They both look across the room at Jaskier, still dead to the world. When she turns back to Geralt, the phrase _I don’t know if he’ll make it that long_ is clear in her eyes, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. “I can give you something for the pain,” she says instead, making no effort to blunt the words.

No. This cannot happen. It will not. Geralt won’t _let it_ -

“So I’m a dead man, then?” a dry voice asks from the opposite side of the room. Geralt whips around to look at Jaskier, who’s still leaning on the wall, eyes closed, face lined with pain. “Curse didn’t affect my hearing,” he adds.

“No,” Geralt says. “You’re not.” He crosses the room in two strides, picking Jaskier up with one arm under his legs and the other supporting his shoulders. “The next town, you said?” he asks the mage, already moving toward the door.

She nods sharply. “Let me at least- There’s an inn at the other end of town, the rooms are cheap. Come back tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do to buy you some time.”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, cradled against his chest, a soft, glazed-over expression on his face. He’s staring at one of the studs on Geralt’s armor like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, but he’s lucid enough to say, “Let’s do that. Please? I’m tired,” not meeting Geralt’s eyes. The plain acknowledgment of the curse, the undercurrent of hopeless fear in his voice, almost scare Geralt worse than the mage’s words had.

Jaskier doesn’t make any comments about Geralt carrying him across town, or complain when Geralt briefly holds him up with one arm, in a position that can’t be comfortable, while paying for a room, or offer a token protest when Geralt deposits him in the room’s one bed with an order to get some rest, and by that point the growing knot of fear in Geralt’s chest feels like a physical thing.

“Rest,” he says, again, in lieu of giving into the urge to start screaming at anyone or anything who’ll listen, “I’ll be right back.” He steps away from the bed, intending to go downstairs and beg the innkeeper for some broth, or something else Jaskier might be able to stomach- 

“Geralt.” There’s the slightest tug on Geralt’s shirt, and he glances down to find Jaskier’s fingers tangled in the hem of the fabric. The small gesture is clearly taking all his effort, and even so, his grip is weak, and even so, Geralt is immobilized. “I-” Jaskier tries to sit up, but he can’t manage much more than raising himself slightly off of the bed, his face looking waxen from the effort. It splinters something in Geralt. He turns back immediately, sitting its edge of the bed to try and coax Jaskier to lie back down. Some distant part of his mind, the bit that’s been trained to dissect tragedies as they occur so he can stop them from occurring again, notes that he’s fussing, hands skittering everywhere, frantically, as though pulling the blanket a little tighter and arranging the pillow more comfortably will actually _do_ anything.

“Shh,” he says; it comes out rough and cracking in a way he’s never heard himself sound before. “Just- lie back. Get some rest. You’re going to be fine.” He places one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and eases him back onto the bed.

“I’ll tell you who my love is.” Jaskier’s voice is barely audible, but it echoes in Geralt’s skull as though he’d shouted. He freezes in place, his hand still resting next to Jaskier’s shoulder, leaning over him in a position that could be intimate but instead feels like a boundary crossed he hadn’t realized he was crossing.

Under the relief and the hope that floods through him, there’s a horrid little twinge of jealousy that he does his best to squash. 

“But,” Jaskier continues. There’s steel in his voice that wasn’t there before. He locks one hand in Geralt’s shirt to leverage himself upright; behind the feverish cloudiness in his eyes there’s a determination that’s so wholly Jaskier it makes Geralt’s heart ache. “You have to promise me something first.”

“Anything.” The word slips from his lips without thought, entirely meant.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jaskier says. He laughs, a gallows laugh. “From beyond the godsdamned grave, I will hold you to that, see if I won’t.” His grip on Geralt’s shirt is already weakening, and Geralt slips an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady. “Promise me,” Jaskier says, and for all that his grip has weakened his voice is stronger, “You won’t blame him.”

The request doesn’t track with anything Geralt had been expecting. He’s still trying to parse it when Jaskier continues, “I mean it. I’ll tell you who I’m in love with, but when it doesn’t work, when his kiss doesn’t fix me-” he pauses, for a second, to gather his strength, and Geralt’s arm wraps tighter around his shoulders in the blind hope that his support will do something- “Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault he doesn’t feel for me the way I feel for him.”

It’s a noble request, but it stings that Jaskier thinks Geralt would direct his grief at some innocent bystander.

Jaskier continues, completely unaware of Geralt’s turmoil. “And I know you’re going to- you know what, never mind, forget it. Just promise me- Promise me you’ll remember-” He makes a feeble attempt to pull himself closer to Geralt. Geralt helps him sit fully upright, and Jaskier leans his forehead against Geralt’s. He’s burning, but his gaze is surprisingly lucid as he says, “Remember that _I_ don’t blame him. This is not his fault. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if he weren’t a good man.”

Geralt has nothing to say to that, a declaration of love for some absent person he’s never even heard of. The curl of jealousy at the back of his mind twists painfully, his heart aches with the man he wants in his arms, passionately declaring his love for someone Geralt’s never met, and yet- “Tell me, then,” he says, latching onto the hope that he can find this man and fix this, see Jaskier alive and happy and with his beloved and still in this world, “Maybe he- maybe you’re wrong, maybe he does feel the same way.”

Jaskier laughs, but it quickly turns into a coughing fit. Geralt runs one hand down his back in a mindless attempt to soothe him. “Why wouldn’t he,” he continues, half-baring his soul and completely uncertain of the words he should use, “You’re- good.” It’s wholly inadequate to how he feels but he can’t think of a word that encompasses what Jaskier is to him.

“Flatterer,” Jaskier whispers, eyes fluttering closed. He sags against Geralt’s arms, slowly becoming dead weight. A shot of anxiety goes through Geralt like a blade, sending his heart racing at an almost human pace.

“Jaskier,” he says, the urgency of the situation sharpening his voice. “I need a name.” Jaskier does not reply. “I won’t blame him,” he adds, in the vain hope that Jaskier is just being stubborn. Jaskier’s only response is a soft sigh. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s eyes open, fever-bright and soft. “’s you,” he says, quiet enough that Geralt has to lean in to hear. His expression’s hazy, focused on something to the side of Geralt’s head, his words so slurred together that Geralt has no hope of understanding them. Geralt isn’t entirely certain he’s even aware of what he’s saying. “Love. Since- always.” His lips quirk up in something resembling a smile. “Sorry.” The word’s not even out of his mouth when his eyes start to close again.

“No.” Geralt’s voice breaks on the word. “You’re not dying on me, damn you, just give me his _name_.”

“Kiss me,” Jaskier says, and that, at least, is clear, although his voice is almost quieter than the range of even witcher hearing, and his skin’s gone unsettlingly grey; the part of Geralt’s mind that’s removed from all this notes that the progress of the curse seems to be accelerating exponentially. “Please,” he adds, an edge of fear in his voice that only intensifies as he continues speaking, “Wouldn’t ask if I weren’t- Please, please just try, I can’t-” He’s begging by the end of it, as though Geralt were holding a knife to his throat, frantic and feverish and terrified. “Kiss me.”

Without a coherent thought in his head, beyond a wordless certainty that he _will not_ be the reason his Jaskier’s last moments are a haze of fear and pain, Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead. The instant he does, Jaskier calms, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “There,” Geralt says, gruffly, searching for some words that might comfort him. “See? You’re alright now.”

Jaskier smiles at him. He still looks awful, pale and hollow-eyed, but the sheer delight in that smile transforms his face anyhow. He looks like himself, despite everything. He looks happy. Geralt suddenly, vividly understands why half the people Jaskier meets fall in love with him. If he looks at them like that, a smile like he’d stolen the sun from the perfect summer morning to gift to them alone, Geralt’s frankly not sure why the other half of Jaskier’s acquaintances aren’t madly in love with him, as well.

“I am going to write a brilliant song about this,” Jaskier whispers. And then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps against Geralt, entirely dead weight. The difference between before, when he’d at least been conscious and attempting to support himself, and now, when he’s completely limp, like a rag doll or a fresh corpse, is stark and sickening.

It takes Geralt minutes- too long, far too long, staring at his body in blind shock as his mind refuses to comprehend what’s happening, as though by doing that he could make it un-happen- to realize he’s still breathing. His chest rises and falls, so shallowly that it’s barely perceptible, his heart beats sluggishly, he’s- he’s still alive.

Geralt can work with that. Keep him alive till morning, hope the mage here comes up with a miracle, get him to the next town. If that mage can’t help, he’ll find a way to get the name of Jaskier’s lover, and drag him to Jaskier at swordpoint, if he has to. Geralt gets a certain grim satisfaction of imagining that eventuality- whoever Jaskier loves, the man doesn’t deserve Jaskier if he’d be willing to let him suffer like this.

He just has to keep him breathing. Keep watch tonight. He’s good at that.

He lowers Jaskier onto the bed, all too aware of how fragile he is. Everything about this situation is wrong; he’s too still, too silent, his hair a rat’s nest. He should be complaining to Geralt endlessly about the _state_ he’s in, gesticulating wildly to make his point.

Without allowing himself to think about what he’s doing, Geralt smooths the hair off of Jaskier’s brow. He’s expecting his fever to have worsened, so it’s not so much a relief as it is entirely incomprehensible when he realizes-

His forehead is cool.

His fever’s broken.

Geralt sets aside his disbelief and checks Jaskier over again, with a witcher’s level of efficiency. His fever hasn’t just broken, his color’s better, and the tense little lines of pain have smoothed away from his face. It would be a relief if Geralt had any idea of the cause. Is it some final stage of the curse? Did the man he loves suddenly return his feelings? Was it Geralt kissing him?

Was _it the kiss_? Geralt wonders. As much as that solution doesn’t fit the language of the curse, the timing is impeccable, and he knows curses are an inexact science. The curse was cast accidentally, by a mage who was about to die; there’s a chance that “a kiss from someone who truly loves you” was enough to break it. More to the point, he’s running out of options, and an improbable hope is better than nothing. Maybe, Geralt’s one-sided love will count, or at least delay the curse enough, like this first kiss seems to have done, for him to find a more permanent solution.

Stiffly, he leans over Jaskier, placing a cautious hand on the mattress to the other side of his body. “I love you,” he says, haltingly. It’s not how he’d planned to admit it. He’d never planned to admit it. But if he’s pinning everything on this desperate a hope he’s at least going to do it right.

With that, he cautiously presses his lips to Jaskier’s. It feels wrong; Jaskier’s too still, his lips warm and soft but just as lifeless as if he were-

The memory of what happened the first time they’d tried to break the curse with a kiss from the wrong person creeps up on Geralt like a poison. He shouldn’t have done this. Jaskier’s not waking up, he still isn’t moving, and even if he hasn’t made everything worse under the delusion that his love might be worth something, he’s still as good as killed Jaskier. If he’d been better at the one thing he’s meant to do, if he weren’t such a monster that Jaskier believed he would hurt the man he loves, none of this would have happened.

If he’d just _listened_ , got here faster, figured out a better plan, he could have stopped this.

And now he’s too late.

Geralt begins to pull away.

Jaskier makes a soft sound, barely an inhalation, against his lips. Before Geralt can react, Jaskier’s kissing him back. One of his hands comes up to cup Geralt’s cheek, gently tilting his head so that he can deepen the kiss. He’s using his other arm to shove himself upright on the bed, pressing himself as close to Geralt as he can. _He’s going to hurt himself_ , Geralt thinks, distantly, and wraps one arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, cradling him like he had been before. Unlike before, Jaskier mirrors the motion, wrapping the arm he’d been using to hold himself upright around Geralt’s waist. He’s entirely lacking in coordination, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm; he’s kissing Geralt like all he’s ever wanted to do is kiss Geralt, like he’s decided that if that is the last thing he’ll ever do, he’s going to make it the best experience he could possibly have. Geralt, for his part, simply holds him and pleads with the universe for this to be working.

Jaskier is the one to break the kiss, eventually, letting himself lean back against Geralt’s arm in a gesture that falls closer to ‘dramatic swoon’ than ‘exhausted collapse.’ Geralt is vividly aware of every aspect of their position at once: the soft pressure of Jaskier’s arm over his shoulders, the feeling of his palm against his cheek, warm and slightly sweaty and entirely perfect. The shift of the bedding as he tries to brace himself above Jaskier with a knee and one arm, not willing to let go of Jaskier to steady himself. The hairsbreadth of space between their bodies.

The way Jaskier is smiling up at Geralt.

Jaskier’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, but this is something new, his expression openly, unabashedly happy. It’s the same expression he’d have when Geralt would recount fights for him in as much detail as he could muster, the same all-encompassing happiness, like sunlight, the slight, hidden softness in his eyes- but fully unguarded. Geralt, who hadn’t realized he’d _been_ guarded before, feels almost pinned by the intensity of the emotion. And his eyes have lost the glassy look; there’s color in his cheeks, and he’s staring at Geralt like Geralt is the most important thing in the world.

Geralt, helpless in the face of that maelstrom of emotion, of the tiny, creeping hope budding in his chest despite the events of the past four days, finds himself mirroring the expression.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, drawing out Geralt’s name like he’s savoring it. “You-” He sits up a little further, forcing Geralt to do some hasty rearranging of his limbs or fall off the bed, and as soon as he’s accomplished that he finds himself with a lapful of Jaskier. Jaskier pulls Geralt into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Geralt suddenly feels like he’s the one being cradled. “You saved me.” Jaskier sounds almost awed. “I don’t- there’s not even words for- you _saved me_.” Hesitantly, giving him as much space as possible to pull away, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier. Jaskier’s only response is to cling to him a little closer. He doesn’t say anything after that, or move, just holds onto Geralt like he’d be quite content to stay here for an eternity.

His forehead, where it’s resting against Geralt’s neck, is still cool. The tiny bud of hope starts to bloom without Geralt’s permission, chasing all thoughts of what to do next from Geralt’s mind, leaving him lightheaded. He allows himself, just for a moment, to savor this: Jaskier, safe in his arms, his breath tickling the hair at the back of Geralt’s neck, heartbeat strong and steady, alive. They’re pressed so close together that not only can Geralt hear his heartbeat, he can feel it as though it’s beating within his own chest. Jaskier could decide traveling with a witcher is too dangerous and leave right now, and Geralt would still be content, more than content, knowing that Jaskier lived on, having had this.

Eventually, though, decades of training take over. “The curse is broken?” he asks, in a low voice, trying not to disturb the peace of the moment. “You’re sure it hasn’t just weakened?”

“You could always kiss me again, to be safe,” Jaskier says, a smile in his voice that does not mesh with the urgency of the situation.

“We should get moving, in that case,” Geralt says, starting to pick Jaskier up. It’ll be quicker if he carries him. “If you’re feeling well enough to-”

“Geralt,” Jaskier cuts over him. His voice is warm and reassuring, even though he’s wriggling away from Geralt’s attempt to pick him up, which is proving difficult, since he doesn’t seem to want to let go of Geralt. “It’s alright. I was joking.” That is an awful joke to make, in Geralt’s opinion, but having heard some of Jaskier’s pick-up lines, he’s shouldn’t be surprised. Sounding genuinely contrite, Jaskier continues. “I’m curse-free, absolutely perfect. I felt it break when you kissed me, which, I’ll have you know, felt _extremely fucking bizarre_. But I’d very much like to kiss you again, without a curse hanging over our heads.”

Geralt freezes. That can’t be-

He _can’t_ have heard that right.

Jaskier deserves better, could have his pick of better, has been talking about someone better for the past four days.

And while a part of Geralt wonders if he’s simply looking for someone to have a good life-affirming fuck with, well. Jaskier may be careless in his choice of lovers, but he’s never been cruel, certainly not cruel enough to lead Geralt on knowing that he loves him.

So then why is he-

Why the hell would he-

Jaskier’s giving him a concerned look, like he’s figured out that Geralt is clearly having auditory hallucinations. “But we don’t have to do anything about this if you don’t want to,” he adds gently. He sets his hand over Geralt’s, where it’s resting uselessly on the bed. His thumb moves in little comforting circles against the side of Geralt’s hand, like he’s not entirely aware that he’s doing it. “Or if you need time.” The sincerity in his voice is devastating. Geralt’s still frozen; the words wash over him just as they would a statue. “I’m here, though. If you’ll have me.”

The words hit him like a knife through the ribs, slicing into his lungs, stealing his voice. After a moment of silence, Jaskier stands, giving Geralt’s hand a soft squeeze as he gets up. The sudden loss of his warmth leaves Geralt feeling like something physical has been carved out of him. “Or,” he says, and the levity in his voice is only a little forced. “We could forget this whole thing ever happened. Which I’m definitely in favor of, that was a singularly unpleasant experience -”

“Jaskier.” It takes everything he has to force to word past his lips. His hand moves of its own volition, grabbing loosely onto Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier stills immediately, looking at Geralt in a way that reads as hopeful, almost shy. Geralt holds his gaze for a moment, trying to figure out how best to phrase what he wants to say. “What about your lover?”

The muted hope that appears in Jaskier’s eyes is unexpected, and Geralt’s confusion only multiplies when Jaskier says, “I wouldn’t take any other lovers, if we were together. Not unless we’d talked about it first and we both agreed.” His tone is reassuring, horribly so; he’s reassuring Geralt about everything but the actual problem at hand, and as frustrating as it is his sincerity makes Geralt’s heart ache.

“No, your lover! The man you’ve been raving about for the past four days?” Geralt says. His voice comes out more cracked with emotion than he’d meant it to, but he’s beginning to seriously worry that the fever damaged Jaskier’s mind, or possibly that he himself has fallen into a parallel dimension.

“You mean… yourself? Geralt, are you alright?”

“Why would I mean- you were talking about a man, who you’ve been in love with for years, you said he was noble and heroic and kind-”

“Yeah, I was, Geralt. _You_.”

_Oh._

“You were talking about me,” Geralt says, as though it will sound less like something out of a fever dream if he says it aloud. Jaskier nods. “You said you met him in a tavern- you _were_ talking about me!” Jaskier nods again. His face is impassive, but Geralt can tell from the glint in his eye that he’s doing his best to fight back a smile. A second, even more confusing thought occurs to him. “You called me a good man. And kind.”

“Which you _are_ ,” Jaskier says. He reaches out a hand like he’s going to tuck some hair back from Geralt’s face, but abandons the gesture midway through. “I’d have called you that even if I weren’t hopelessly in love with you.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Geralt says, because of all the near impossible things Jaskier has said in the past minute, this one makes the least sense.

Jaskier glares at him. “You are! Don’t-”

“Not that.” Geralt pulls him in close, their knees bumping together, and tugs him down into a kiss. He tries to pour everything he means but can’t quite articulate into the kiss, ‘of _course_ I love you’ and ‘how could I not’ and ‘years now’ and ‘you are so, deeply loved.’ From the way Jaskier leans into the kiss, Geralt thinks he understands. He breaks the kiss anyway, to tell him, “It wasn’t hopeless,” before kissing him again, determined to drive that misconception from his head as thoroughly as possible. Jaskier makes a delighted little noise and scrambles into his lap, finally, finally reaching up to thread his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

And part of him, a part that grows much easier to ignore for every kiss Jaskier trails down his neck, still insists that this is impossible.

It still feels the tiniest bit like a dream.

And yet, he can’t argue with Jaskier here, in his arms, smiling into their kiss. Can’t argue with the achingly sincere, “I love you,” Jaskier whispers against his lips, can’t argue with the delight on his face when Geralt, emboldened, starts undoing the few remaining buttons on Jaskier’s shirt, the look he gives Geralt as he returns the favor.

Can’t, and wouldn’t want to.

“I love you, too,” he tells Jaskier, and the way his face lights up at the words before he pulls Geralt down into the bed is worth everything, could keep him warm for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fair" by The Amazing Devil. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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